


Merlin Emrys, Christmas Elf, Letter Processing Class

by mabyn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Elves, Healing, M/M, past original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabyn/pseuds/mabyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after his husband died on Christmas Eve, Arthur is desperate enough to mail a letter to Santa. Merlin is the elf who reads it. Modern Magical AU, Holidays</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merlin Emrys, Christmas Elf, Letter Processing Class

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Holiday Bingo, for the prompt "elf".
> 
> Warnings: original character death (past)

Dear Mr. Claus,

I don't know if you're real. In fact, I'm fairly certain you're not, but I'll try anything at this point. This is what it's come to: I'm a twenty-nine-year-old man with a career, a nice home, and a son, but instead of relaxing on the sofa with a glass of wine or having dinner with an attractive man (couldn't even tell you the last time I did _that_ ), here I sit on a Friday night writing letters to a mythical being who flies around the world delivering presents (of all things!). So, yes, I have problems.

You see, everything changed when Tain passed away. It's been almost three years since that terrible Christmas, but the truth is I still wake up every morning expecting to see his face. Of course it's not as bad as it was. Christ—I couldn't survive that again, don't know how I did it the first time. I think seeing how much Mordred needed me was what kept me going.

Mordred is the reason I'm writing now. I just got him to sleep after he cried until he had no tears left to shed. Things are worse at this time of year. His memories affect him so powerfully that we can't even have a Christmas tree. No tree on Christmas—imagine that.

So I'm hoping there's maybe something you can do, some pixie dust you can sprinkle or whatever magic you all have up there in the North Pole, that will make things a little easier for my son. He doesn't need a PlayStation or an iPad or some expensive gift that he'll get bored of after a few months. If it were that easy, I'd get the damned thing myself. I'd run right out to the shop and hand over my credit card no matter what the price was, even if money has gotten a bit tight around here. 

Mr. Claus, my boy is still in mourning for his father, and if there's anything, any way you might be able to heal him, even a little, I beg that you'll help. I don't know what to do anymore.

You know what's strange about writing letters? Even if you're not real, I feel a little better. I suppose faith can do that sometimes. Tain liked to say that all we need to survive is a bit of wine and a lot of hope. Or was it the other way around? Anyway, I think I might even mail this letter. Imagine! 

Yours truly,  
Arthur C. Pendragon

*

"As soon as you're finished with this pile, clean my chambers."

"Oof!" Merlin struggled to maintain his balance under the sack of letters Percy tossed to him. For the love of Santa, he had no idea why children still insisted on mailing paper instead of sending email. More convenient for _everyone_.

"You think because you're Christmas Eve Class, you're a damn knight of the realm. Well you aren't, and there's no law saying I have to clean up after you. I'm not a servant. Those of us in Letter Processing Class deserve respect, too," Merlin said with a sniff.

"Do you want my recommendation if a spot ever opens in Wrapping?" Percy raised his eyebrow. "Then I suggest you get to work." He adjusted the pointy green cap on his head and stalked out of the room.

"You don't even look like an elf!" Merlin shouted after him.

When Merlin had become old enough to fend for himself, he'd made his way just like all the elves before him to the North Pole, determined to find acceptance for his differences. No one in the human world had tolerance for creatures of magic, and Merlin was lucky his mother Hunith had been a kind and understanding woman. Of course, it was no surprise to her that Merlin was the way he was: his father had descended from a line of elf kings, after all.

Merlin flopped back onto his stool with a weary sigh and loosened the strings binding the sack of letters. He hardly resembled his royal forebears now. Letter Processing Class indeed. Even though he suspected he was a favourite, Santa had nevertheless started him right at the bottom and told him he'd have to work his way up. Still, sorting letters was a lot better than shovelling coal into the stove (he'd even explained to Santa how toxic that was for the environment, but Santa said he needed it for the bad children, anyway), and he bloody well had better just deal with it. Although it couldn't compare to riding alongside Santa in his sleigh on Christmas Eve to help him deliver the gifts, there _were_ some interesting aspects of his job: he was afforded a window into the lives of children from all over the world, and given the weighty responsibility of judging the worthiness of their behaviour for a gift. 

He was growing weary by the time he'd opened what felt like the millionth letter, entering the gift requests into the database, assigning the writer a goodness score from one to ten, and stamping the letter done, when he came upon one that caught his attention. 

_Dear Mr. Claus, I don't know if you're real. In fact, I'm fairly certain you're not, but I'll try anything at this point._

Very few children began their letter with a declaration of Santa's nonexistence, and as he read on, he was even more surprised to discover the writer was no child at all.

"Well, this is something," Merlin murmured to himself.

The man—Arthur C. Pendragon—must be desperate indeed if he was writing to a man he didn't believe in, and Merlin could see why. Debilitating as it was to have lost your husband, especially at such a young age, to watch your child suffer an equal grief… Merlin shook his head, unable to imagine the pain. How had his own mother endured it? Merlin knew what it was like to grow up without a father, but his father had died before he was born, so Merlin did not know the man he should miss. This little Mordred, on the other hand…

Merlin longed to ease the wounds of the broken family, but Letter Processing Class jobs didn't involve much creative thinking: children listed their demands, and he recorded them. No one had ever said they wanted something that couldn't be bought in a shop, or worse, give him no hints about what that something might be.

There was only one way to answer the questions he had. Merlin booted up a web browser and searched _Arthur Pendragon_. His screen was instantly filled with links to Pendragon's law firm, contributions to the community, and news articles. Merlin began to click. 

_survived by his husband, Arthur Pendragon, and their five-year-old son_

_terrible car accident shocked the city on Christmas Eve_

_declined to comment_

_other driver was reportedly driving under the influence on her way back from a holiday party_

"Santa's beard," Merlin whispered, horrified. With every report he read, Merlin's desire to help Pendragon and his little boy took deeper hold in his heart. He found himself becoming curious, too, about the man who had found the strength to survive the tragedy and raise his son alone, and who lacked the self-consciousness that might have prevented other adults in similar circumstances from mailing a letter to the North Pole. Or the desperation. Merlin shuddered.

And then he spotted a picture of Pendragon. He was a handsome man with neatly trimmed blond hair and a firm, almost noble jawline. From the smile lighting his eyes and the unworried expression on his face, Merlin guessed the picture had been taken before the accident. Merlin sucked in a breath. He was gorgeous. But it wasn't just his obvious good looks that caught his attention: there was something about him that made it difficult for Merlin to breathe. It was like recognising someone you knew only from a dream. Merlin cocked his head to one side and zoomed in on the picture until Pendragon's face blurred into a million pixels. He wondered how grief and responsibility had since altered him since. 

Merlin did something then that he never had before: instead of entering the gift requests into the database and stamping the letter complete, he folded it neatly into a square and pocketed it. Over the next few days, he read and reread it until he had memorised its contents. The photograph of Pendragon haunted all his thoughts. When his plea had failed to loosen its hold, Merlin made himself a promise: he would think of a gift that, even if it would not make the boy's pain go away, would give him some hope. Merlin would find a way to deliver it himself.

*

"I want to be elevated to Christmas Eve class, and you're going to help me."

Percy raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Come on, Merlin. I'm overwhelmed with work, and I don't have time for your shenanigans." 

Merlin glared. "I'm serious. I've cleaned your chambers every day for two years—I've swept up your fingernail clippings, emptied your rubbish, and wiped your toilet bowl—and this is the first time I've asked for a favour."

"But what a favour!" Percy boomed. "You haven't even made it into Wrapping yet, and already you want to jump to the top?" The buttons holding his uniform in place threatened to burst beneath the strain of his muscles.

"Please, even for only this year," Merlin said. He'd beg if he had to. "There's something I have to do."

Percy studied him with a new thoughtfulness. "Even if I wanted to help you, it's more complicated than that. Christmas Eve Class are the strongest of the elves, in both body and magic. We fly sleighs, tame reindeer, magic ourselves into houses—and we've trained to endure the physical stress of circling the globe in a single night. You? You sit on your rump day and night in front of spreadsheets. It would take a better elf a year to get in shape—what about you, with Christmas less than two weeks away?"

In spite of the way he frequently teased him, Merlin knew Percy wasn't trying to be cruel now, just realistic. It _was_ mad, after all, but Merlin had more magic than Percy or any other elf realised. Apart from Santa, Merlin preferred to keep his noble lineage quiet so the other elves would not think him proud, but in the many years he had lived in Santa's domain, he had found no match for his talents.

The physical demands of the job—well, that was another matter entirely.

"I can train. You can train me. I'll work really hard. You'll see. Just help me—please."

"For the love of—" Percy scratched his head. "Fine. Ok. But I'm not making you any promises. If you're not ready on Christmas Eve, then you're not going."

"Thanks, Perce. You won't be disappointed," Merlin said in relief.

"Just one thing," Percy said. "Never call me 'Perce' again."

*

Percy's training nearly killed him. He'd been forced to jog around the gifting complex, do pushups, and even lift weights, but nothing had been worse than his training in the sleigh simulator, where he learned how to endure the speeds and strain of flight, not to mention the thin air. Still, Percy was impressed with his magic, and by the time Christmas Eve arrived, Merlin was in the best shape of his life. 

"Not bad," Percy said with his arms folded across his chest. "You've come a long way. I wouldn't say you're strong enough to be Christmas Eve Class, but with your magic skills, you might be able to get away with it."

"So you'll recommend me then?" Merlin asked, the sweat still pouring down his face from another of Percy's gruelling workouts.

"That was the deal." 

Merlin grinned.

Not a day later, Merlin was tying on a neckerchief over a new red uniform that mirrored Santa's own. He shoved his feet into brown boots, shrugged on his parachute pack, and carefully adjusted his cap so it was sitting just right on his head. He regarded himself in the mirror with satisfaction: he looked like a proper elf, Christmas Eve Class.

The sleigh runway teemed with busy elves in a state of organised chaos. Managers barked orders as delivery elves ferried packages from the workshop to the cargo area of the sleigh, and those who would accompany Santa on the ride were doing a few last-minute stretches on the platform. The sleigh, an enclosed, antique-looking vehicle resembling a horse-drawn carriage, magically expanded into something like a jet airplane once Merlin boarded it. 

"Wow," Merlin breathed, amazed.

Someone smirked. It was Percy, strapped into his seat and patting the empty one next to him. 

"You ready, big man?" Percy asked as Merlin buckled himself in.

Merlin leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. The combination of excitement and nerves made him dizzy, but it wasn't flying that so disturbed his equilibrium. Merlin thought about the strength and honour he saw etched in Pendragon's face and flushed. He still had no idea what he would give his son, and he'd boarded the sleigh empty-handed. He prayed that when he saw the little boy, he'd know what to do.

Merlin was far too overwhelmed by the difficulties of the task ahead of him to appreciate the sleigh's graceful liftoff, the thrill of climbing into the Christmas Eve sky, and the warp speed at which the reindeer pulled them. Preoccupied with thoughts of the suffering the Pendragons must be enduring at this time of year, Merlin performed his first duties as a Christmas Eve elf with a solemn melancholy. Following Percy's lead, Merlin parachuted out of the sleigh when instructed, magicked himself into homes, distributed gifts, and returned to the flight, deep in thought the entire time.

And then suddenly, they landed on the street where the Pendragons lived. 

"Good luck," Percy said, saluting him. He had no idea how much Merlin needed it.

The Pendragons' home was a stately one whose bright red door was decorated with a holiday wreath and bordered by perfectly manicured shrubs outside. Freshly fallen snow gave it a storybook quality. It would be difficult for any passers-by to imagine how haunted by the past the occupants inside were.

Merlin muttered the elvish words that brought a rush of magic, and instantly found himself within the sitting room. It was eerily quiet inside, the silence broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. Pictures of two attractive men holding a small, dark-haired child decorated the bookshelves. There was no Christmas tree in sight. Merlin began to tremble. He had come with nothing, and he had no idea how to heal the little boy. Merlin searched the faces of the people in the photographs for clues.

"Stop right there."

Merlin whipped around and, he was ashamed to admit, squeaked. Elves were not supposed to get caught, but here he was with his arms raised over his head while a large figure in the darkness approached him with a frying pan, poised to attack.

"Wait—I'm not a thief!" Merlin exclaimed.

"Who are you?"

"Mr. Pendragon?" Merlin asked. It could be none other.

"How do you know my name?" The man came closer.

This was going from bad to worse. "Ok, ok, just… put that down. My name is Merlin, and I'm an… I'm an elf." Merlin prepared himself for a blow.

Pendragon flipped on the light and peered at him. "Bullshit. There are no such things as elves, and even if there were, you're far too tall to be one. It's disgusting, you know, to steal from people on Christmas." 

"I'm telling the truth, I swear," said Merlin, reaching into his pocket. "If you don't believe me, believe this." He held out the letter Pendragon had mailed weeks ago and prayed the man would see reason.

Pendragon snatched the paper from his hand and stared at its contents with shock on his face. He snapped his head up. "Where did you get this?"

"I told you," Merlin said. "I'm an elf. I process all the letters that come in. When I read yours, I… I felt like I knew you. I wanted to help. You see, my own father died when I was very young, younger even than your son."

"Help?" Pendragon asked, still staring at the letter. The frying pan dropped to his side, and the fight seemed to go out of him. His shoulders sagged, and when he looked up again, Merlin saw that his eyes were red and swollen, as if he'd been crying. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have presumed—"

"Would you like a cuppa?" Pendragon interrupted. 

"No, I really don't have time for—" Merlin began, but Pendragon was already walking into the kitchen. Merlin followed.

"I'm Arthur. But you already knew that. And since you read my letter, you know my whole life story as well, don't you?" Arthur set the kettle on and stared at Merlin again. "I must have truly gone mad to think I am talking to an overgrown elf on Christmas Eve." He shook his head. "This is the hardest night of the year, especially for Mordred. I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

Arthur recounted the story of his husband's death again, and all he had suffered in trying to ease Mordred's despair. It seemed to provide the man with some relief to talk about it. 

"You know what the worst thing about it is? One minute he was here, and I thought we'd have the rest of our lives to spend together, and the next thing I knew, the police were at the front door." Arthur put down his cup of tea and paced the kitchen. "How are you supposed to move on from that? We didn't even get to say goodbye."

Merlin went still. "If you somehow had the chance to say goodbye now, would you want that?" 

Arthur scoffed. "'Would give anything if I could. But that's impossible, isn't it? Fate has been cruel to me."

"Just a minute ago, you thought elves were impossible, and here you are talking to one."

Arthur looked nervous all of a sudden. "What are you saying?"

Merlin swallowed. He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to suggest this, or even if he had the strength to do it. "I could… I couldn't promise, but I'd try… if you wanted to speak to your husband one last time, there might be a way."

Arthur's face clouded over with anger. "Now I'm certain you're a swindler. Why don't you—" 

Merlin whispered a simple spell and the tea kettle sailed across the kitchen and refilled his cup. Arthur stared in silence as the floating object came to rest neatly on the table. 

"How did you—"

"I told you, I'm an elf. Elves are magic," Merlin said. "And I am more magic than most."

Arthur pinched himself and winced. "Ok. Let's say you are not a figment of my imagination. And let's say magic is real, and that you possess it. How could you bring a man back from the dead?"

Merlin looked at the spark of hope shining in Arthur's eyes and knew he could not disappoint him, not after all he'd done to get here. "I would part the veil between the worlds, and call your husband through to this side. You wouldn't have much time—my magic could only keep him here for a few minutes, maybe less. But you could see him. Mordred could see him. You could say goodbye."

Arthur leapt up before Merlin could see his face. He paced across the kitchen, his arms wrapped around his body. Merlin worried the mere suggestion had done more harm than good; he had only wanted to help this man, but he'd stuck his foot in it again. 

"I'm sorry, I should—"

"—Yes," Arthur spun around and faced him.

"I understand, I'll go then."

"No. Yes, I mean, we must try this. If there's even the slightest hope, then we must. It was hope that brought you here, wasn't it?" Arthur flew to him and lifted him out of the chair, gripping him by the shoulders. "Merlin, if this works… but we mustn't wake Mordred, not until we're certain."

"Of course," Merlin nodded in relief. He wanted so much to give Arthur and his son this one chance. "When would you like to start?"

"Right away," Arthur said, pulling Merlin by the hand back into the sitting room. "I want his old record player to be the first thing Tain sees! I want—" Arthur paused and bit his lip, and laughed. "This is madness. I should put some decent clothes on, my hair…"

He flew out of the room. Merlin smiled to himself, happy that he had brought Arthur such joy with even the thought of seeing his husband again. He had to be strong. Nothing had ever been so important to him before, not even becoming a Christmas Eve elf. He focussed inward and drew upon that reserve of energy that was always so tightly coiled in the core of him, waiting for release. He would need to exhaust every bit of that energy if he was to bring off this feat. 

He was so deep in his trance that when he opened his eyes, Arthur was already back in the room dressed in a neat red pullover with dark trousers, his hair newly combed. He was watching him intently, as if Merlin had been unaware of his surroundings for some time. 

"Ready?" he asked, not wanting to break the spell.

Arthur nodded. 

Merlin stretched out his hand and summoned his magic, which responded upon the instant, rumbling through his veins and gathering momentum with every second. The ancient words came to him, ageless and eternal, and he spoke them with the voice of all the sorcerers who had come before him. He lost himself to it; there was only lightness and sound, bliss and pain, and Merlin found himself dragging open a reluctant void and yanking the shadow of Arthur's husband through the narrow opening he'd created.

His mind was so mired in a fog that at first Merlin was only dimly aware of the spirit in the room, Arthur's emotional reaction, and the long embrace that followed. But then he knew he had done the impossible. He'd achieved that which the other elves spoke of only as legend. 

Arthur disappeared, and when he returned after a few moments, he was holding a sleepy boy by the hand. 

"Daddy!" the boy shouted as soon as he saw the spirit, and ran into his arms. Tain picked him up and whirled him around, weeping. 

When the boy recovered enough to speak, he asked, "Why did you leave us?"

"I didn't want to," Tain explained. His voice was edged with that kind of desperation particular to parents who must help their children come to terms with the pointless injustice of human life. "When we are called to the other world, we must go. But you don't have to be sad. I still watch over you, and I'll always be by your side."

The boy nodded, and Merlin wondered if he really understood. Still, he'd mourned three years for his father, and in his eyes Merlin glimpsed wisdom beyond his age. He prayed this moment would bring Mordred consolation in the years ahead. Yet Merlin knew his ability to extend the reunion was limited, and to hold the veil open much longer would be against the nature of things.

Arthur glanced in his direction before turning back to Tain. "I told him you couldn't stay long, right, Mordred?" he asked. His voice was filled with a sad resignation.

Tain nodded. "I'm grateful I could hold you one last time. It's enough to have had this chance to say goodbye."

"Don't leave," Mordred said, tightening his arms around Tain's neck. Merlin's magic began to slip.

"Go back to your father," Tain said, putting Mordred down and glancing about worriedly. Perhaps he too could sense the other world reclaiming him. He looked at Arthur and smiled weakly. "And you—don't live in the past anymore. I know how it's been for you, and I don't want that."

Arthur nodded, as if he wanted to speak but could not. He placed his hands over Mordred's chest and tugged him closer. Tain's shadow began to fade. He would be gone in an instant. 

Then, just as Tain was about to disappear, Mordred's eyes shifted yellow, and the opening in the veil expanded. It took a moment for Merlin to understand what was happening, but as Merlin watched the boy, he became certain. Had Arthur known? By the confused expression on his face, Merlin guessed he had not. 

"Mordred, you must stop," Merlin said. "You don't know what you're doing." 

Mordred stared fiercely at Tain, who was held trapped between the two worlds, his face twisted in fear. They did not have much time left. Merlin begged Mordred to end the enchantment, but the boy would not. Time stretched.

"Arthur, please," he begged.

Arthur knelt down behind the boy and placed his hands on his shoulders. "It's ok to let go, Mordred." 

Doubt appeared in the boy's eyes, and Tain's shadow grew dimmer.

"I know how you feel," Arthur coaxed. "But we both have to say goodbye. He understands."

"But will he be happy?" Mordred asked, his voice cracking.

Arthur nodded. "Yes, he will be happy. Where he is, there is no pain."

Mordred didn't look away from Tain, but his eyes changed slowly from gold to blue, and his small body sagged. Tain shimmered once more, and then was gone as quickly as a flame extinguished by a cold gust of wind. 

"My son," Arthur said, gathering Mordred into his arms. "You've been so strong. Let me put you to bed." He nodded once at Merlin before he left the room, Mordred's arms tight around his neck. 

This was the perfect time for Merlin to escape. He'd done what he'd come here to do, and in spite of the dull ache in his stomach at the thought of leaving Arthur and his son, Merlin knew he must go. 

When he tried to magic himself back to the sleigh, however, he found he was almost too exhausted to move. The seemingly boundless well of energy in the core of him had run dry. It scared him. He'd expended so much energy finding Tain that he'd reserved almost nothing for himself to complete his Christmas ride. 

"Ah good, you're still here," Arthur said breathlessly, rushing back into the room. "I didn't want you to leave before I could thank you." His face had relaxed so much that he resembled the photographs Merlin had glimpsed online, rather than the troubled man he'd been when Merlin first arrived. There was a brightness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. 

Merlin nodded. "It made me happy to do it."

Arthur smiled. "I don't deserve such kindness, but I'm thankful. Mordred is asleep. He hasn't been this content in a long time," he continued. "Or I. I feel almost whole again. I feel like I can finally move on." He sat down next to Merlin on the sofa and hugged a cushion. Looking at his soft eyes, Merlin wondered if it were possible for elves to fall in love, but he dismissed the thought as foolish. 

"I'm glad to hear that."

Arthur coughed. "You truly don't look like an elf, you know. You look like—a man." 

Merlin glanced away. He felt suddenly shy and awkward, and Arthur was staring at him so seriously. He didn't know how to reply, so he didn't. "He's special, you know. Your son." 

"I know," Arthur said. "Of course, I didn't realise how special until tonight."

Merlin had heard a hundred stories of people just like Mordred, and where they'd gone—where _he'd_ gone, when they discovered they had magic. It filled him with a crazy, absurd hope… but that was not for him to decide.

"I should go," Merlin said. "They will be waiting for me at the sleigh, and there is still a long night ahead of us." He adjusted his cap and went to the door. It would be hard to leave. Somewhere outside in the shadows where none would spy them, the other elves would be gathering after completing their last delivery. It was time to join them.

"Wait," Arthur said, following Merlin across the room. "Will I see you again?"

It's strange the way when something is meant to be, you just know it deep in your gut. It had been like that when Merlin discovered the elves. He felt like that now. Fate would not be rushed; destiny would unveil itself when the time was right, and no sooner. He didn't know the precise answer to Arthur's question, but he knew that sometimes if you took a chance, if you believed, anything was possible.

"I hope so," Merlin said, and disappeared into the Christmas Eve night.


End file.
